Hawthorne doesn’t lower his weapon. He looks at me. “Roselle St. Sismode, I order you to come with us.”
Warily, I start toward Hawthorne at the door. I don’t take more than a step before Agent Crow barks, “Stop!” I halt. “She can’t leave here without her moniker. Only we can give her that.” He moves to the agent at the door and opens his palm. Agent Losif drops the shiny holographic identifier into it. Closing his fingers around it, Agent Crow lifts his other hand for the moncalate used to implant a moniker beneath flesh.
Goose bumps rise on my arms. Agent Crow opens a slot on the surgical tool and loads my moniker into it. The click of it being chambered makes me flinch. Agent Crow’s eyes meet mine. A mixture of emotions hides there—rage, lust, aggression. I suppress another shiver.
He lifts my hand, rubbing his thumb over the skin between my thumb and finger. “You have a birthmark,” he says. He places the tool beside my birthmark and depresses a button. A puff of white air emits from the nozzle aimed at my skin. It instantly numbs the area. A thin laser cuts a line on the back of my hand. I bite my lip as it burns, but the pain isn’t unmanageable. Small curls of smoke rise to my nose. Agent Crow inhales deeply, watching me.
The laser extinguishes and a little clamp appears from the cylindrical body of the tool. It latches into the flaps of skin, pulling them apart while a tiny claw on a steel arm reaches inside to extract my fried moniker. The claw drops the broken, bloody chip onto the floor. It retreats back inside the metallic body and retrieves the new identifier, shooting it into place.
My eyelids close a fraction at the intense stinging of the new chip settling onto my sinew. Agent Crow watches, savoring my pain. The claw and the clamps retract into the body of the tool. Red laser light seals my skin closed, leaving a pink incision scar that throbs.
Agent Crow lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my incision. I try to pull my hand from his, but he holds it fast, smiling. “I will dream of you, Roselle,” he promises. The flow of my blood feels thready.
My new sword-shaped hologram shines for the first time. It’s no longer golden. It’s silver, denoting the Transition to a processed secondborn. Agent Crow flashes me a grin. I wrench my hand from his and move to the doorway. Hawthorne, Gilad, and the other two soldiers surround me. Agent Crow’s attention shifts to Hawthorne. “I never forget a face,” he says, “nor an insult.”
“Neither do I,” Hawthorne replies, his rifle still pointed at Agent Crow. Agent Losif and the woman with the moon moniker are the first to leave. The soldiers from Hawthorne’s unit direct me out. Hawthorne doesn’t lower his weapon until he’s clear of the cell. When he turns and looks at me, his expression is grim. “Move,” he orders.
Chapter 7
Moment of Clarity
Agnes and Agent Losif assume the lead, directing us to a barren hallway in what feels like the bottom of the world. My bare feet are numb against the cool floor, but I hardly notice. I lose my sense of direction as we turn corners and cross through checkpoints where all our monikers are scanned and we’re questioned. When we move again, Hawthorne’s hand touches the small of my back and directs me toward an elevator.
All of us enter the lift except for Agent Losif. He holds the door and addresses Agnes. “You can make it unaccompanied to the surface from here. I’d suggest that you don’t come back for a while if you can help it. Agent Crow is not one to forgive this type of transgression.”
“I hope I never see any of you again,” she responds tersely.
The doors close and Agnes slumps against the wall of the lift. Her green eyes pierce Hawthorne’s. “You need any more favors, you can forget it. Had I known we were going to confront Kipson Crow, there would’ve been no way you could’ve convinced me to help.”
“I owe you, Agnes.”
“You don’t have enough merits to pay me back for this, Hawthorne. And we can’t meet anymore. We can’t be seen together.”
“I know. Thank you.”
She looks at me with derision. “Roselle St. Sismode. I never would’ve thought you’d be a fan, Hawthorne.”
“She taught me the St. Sismode maneuver. I owed her.” He’s talking about a series of choreographed sword attacks designed to give maximum thrust and power in fusionblade combat. I was required to do virtual-access demonstrations of the maneuver.
“I knew it had to have something to do with your sword,” Agnes says sourly.
I’m trembling. Hawthorne removes a copper-colored metallic swatch from a pocket on his thigh, unfolding it into a blanket that he wraps around my shoulders. I clutch it to me. The fabric crinkles and makes noise as I shake, but it warms me, for which I’m grateful. We reach the surface and the elevator doors open into a metal bunker. The guards check our monikers once more before they open a wide steel door. The moon casts pale light high above us. The airships shine on the docks in the branches of the stone Trees, swaying in the wind.
I walk beside Hawthorne on a path that leads away from the Census bunker. “How long was I in there?”
“Three days and a dozen hours,” he replies. “It took me longer than I expected to get you out, but at least we kept him occupied fighting the petitions and the onslaught of inquiries on your behalf. Agnes threw every legal obstacle she could think of at him.”
“Why would either of you do that?” I ask, stunned by his intervention.
“You’re one of us now. We take care of our own. Isn’t that right, Gilad?”
Gilad looks me over with a sneer. “That’s right. We can mess you up, but no one else gets to. It’s a secondborn Sword code: mess with one of us, and we’ll mess with you.”
“Unfortunately, secondborn Moon-Fates don’t subscribe to the same code,” Agnes says, her hand worrying the band of her wrist communicator. The silver shine of her moniker radiates a small rendition of the moon above our heads. “I’m on my own, so don’t think I won’t call in favors with you if I need them—especially you, Roselle, although I doubt you’ll be in a position even to help yourself when that freak back there comes for you again. The only thing saving you from him is the Diamond-Fated press. They’re rabid for this interview with you.”
“You mean there really is a press conference?” I ask. I don’t know how I’m going to pull myself together to get through dinner, let alone an interrogation and a news conference.
“You think I’d have gone in there if there wasn’t?” Agnes’s green eyes narrow. “Of course there’s a press conference. It was arranged by approaching the right people. We spun it so that they felt the propaganda was necessary. People saw the attack. They want you to reassure them.”
“Why would you help me?” I wonder aloud.
“Your friend asked me to do him a favor,” she murmurs. “Just say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
We cross a paved courtyard, passing the first of many stone and metal Trees the size and height of skyscrapers. Secondborn Sword soldiers in full combat gear patrol the lighted walkway. A fast-moving military-style hovercar approaches us. As it pulls near, I recognize Emmitt Stone as its sole occupant.
He opens the door and clucks his tongue, his eyes roving over me. “Processing doesn’t agree with you, Roselle,” he says by way of a greeting. “What are you wearing—and your hair—and your fingernails!” He grasps my hand. His disapproval would be comical if I had any sense of humor at the moment. He takes the metallic blanket from my shoulders and hands it to the dark-eyed girl in Hawthorne’s unit. The tag on her uniform reads “Hammon.”
“You couldn’t have given her shoes?” Emmitt scolds Gilad, who growls at him in turn. Emmitt retreats a step, his hand going to the base of his throat in a self-soothing way. “We need to get you camera-ready.” He turns to me and urges me toward the hovercar.
“Mother gave orders on my behalf?” I ask. My heart beats quicker with the thought that she cares enough to rescue me.